Stupor
by Dystopic Entropy
Summary: How Chuck spent February 14, 2009. Chuck introspective drabble. Because they’re not doing a Valentine’s episode, but I can just see this happening.


**Title**: Stupor

**Author**: Dystopic Entropy

**Spoilers**: Up to 2.15 Gone With The Will. Also, I'm disregarding the events in 2.17 Carnal Knowledge, for the sake of the romance.

**Summary**: How Chuck spent February 14, 2009. Chuck introspective drabble. Because they're not doing a Valentine's episode, but I can just see this happening.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own GG, and I only wish to own Chuck Bass.

* * *

**Spotted: C at the Palace bar, glass of Scotch in hand, well on his way to drinking himself into a stupor.  
**

It's Valentine's Day. That commercialized abomination of lovey-doveyness, not to mention the horrible, blinding combination of red and pink.

He can't help but think that if he was anyone other than Chuck Bass, he would consider sticking his finger down his throat because the sight of pink and red everywhere is so sickening, but then he'd have something in common with _her_.

If _she_ were _here_, she'd be making some acerbic comment about how that unholy color combination should never, ever be _seen_, much less _worn_, by any UES-er.

He makes a mental note to fire the obviously tasteless employees who've had not only the Palace's lobby but also its _bar_ decorated for this inane so-called holiday.

He takes another swig of his Scotch, barely even feeling the burn as it goes down. He hopes that after just a little bit more makes its way into his system, the pink might blend into the red until he is no longer able to notice just how hideous the place really looks.

He's on his next tumbler when he wonders why on earth the bar is decorated for a day that's meant to be a celebration of love when anyone who has someone to love would be out there loving them instead of sitting here at the bar, trying to get mercifully drunk, not unlike his own pathetic, sorry ass.

He's slowly draining even more of the amber-colored liquid as he frustratedly realizes that it's obviously not working if he's still _thinking_.

So when he finishes that tumbler, instead of nodding for another, he asks for a few shots instead, because the petite brunette who's just come into the bar looks way too much like _her_, and he doesn't want to think about _her_ right now, even though the sight of all those blissfully happy couples strolling past the door, hand in hand, reminds him too much of what could have been.

His alcohol-filled stomach churns as he continues to eye the adoring couples on the sidewalk. There's a man who has his arm slung around the slim waist of the woman walking next to him. He watches as the woman stops to gaze adoringly into the man's eyes. Even though he feels like being physically ill by this point, he forces himself to keep his eyes on the pair as the woman stands on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on the man's lips.

As the shots burn their way down his throat, he finds his mind wandering once again. He wishes that he could be that man, and _she_ could be the smiling woman in his arms, but that just isn't them.

Suddenly, Chuck Bass feels alone in a way he's never quite been able to contemplate while sober.

He wants, no, _needs_ to have someone next to him, a warm body with curves that press into him and make him feel utterly breathless.

He could call any high-priced tart to lay with him tonight, but there's only one woman that his body and mind yearn for. After all, he's screwed hundreds of girls (he's long stopped keeping count) since he first lost it to the psycho bitch five years ago, but he's only ever made love with one woman.

By this time, the Scotch and the shots are beginning to have their desired effect, and his inebriated mind can only clearly focus on one thing, the very thing he is currently trying to forget: _her_.

But at least he knows that the alcohol is starting to do its job, and he's not about to let up now.

After the second round of shots, his head is starting to spin a bit, and the act of turning his head towards the door every time it opens is starting to make him feel a bit unsteady.

So instead, he tries to focus on a spot on the back wall, and when he realizes that the alcohol has rendered him incapable of doing so, he starts to laugh (okay, it's more like a giggle, but _Chuck Bass_ doesn't _giggle_) because the old public speaking trick is failing him, but it's not as if he's about to give some grandiose speech about love.

_She_ hadn't wanted to hear his last one.

And since _she's_ still on his mind, he orders yet another round of shots.

After this one, he finds himself blinking stupidly at the empty row of shot glasses, which seem to sway back and forth in his vision, the same way that his body is almost swaying off of the stool.

At this point, he decides to call it a night before he does anything stupider than trying to apologize to the woman who is tired of having her heart broken again and again.

So he stumbles slowly to the elevator, mind now unable to focus on anything except staying upright on two feet. When he gets out of the elevator and makes it in the door of 1812, he gives a sigh of relief which turns into a burp.

Chuck Bass doesn't remember anything that happens after he tugs off his trademark scarf and collapses onto his bed, because oblivion overtakes him then, and he's glad.

Until, a few hours later, Blair Waldorf becomes the sweet poison that courses through his dreams.

_-fin-_


End file.
